


Let's be alive together (while we still can)

by isamariposa



Series: Pretending [1]
Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, Vaginal Sex, not really explicit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 02:26:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19241947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isamariposa/pseuds/isamariposa
Summary: Valery frees Ulana from the detainment center. Wearied, sick of everything, they pretend to be normal people going out for dinner afterwards - but end up getting maybe a little too close.Addendum to the end of episode 3.





	Let's be alive together (while we still can)

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the fictional representation of Valery Legasov as it appeared on HBO Chernobyl (2019) and the fictional character of Ulana Khomyuk.

 

As they walk in silence through the corridors of the grim detention building, Valery takes one look at her, pale, shoulders slumped, eyes bloodshot as if she hadn't slept one minute on the long night she was arrested, and he makes up his mind.

"I'll see you to your hotel."

"That won't be necessary," Ulana says, absent-minded and polite, as if she were replying to empty pleasantries.

They are nearing the exit. Valery has the distinct impression that the guards in plainclothes along the corridor are scowling at them as they pass. Maybe it comes with the job. Maybe scowling is something you must perfect when you start working for the KGB. Maybe they even hire people on this basis. Valery stops making eye contact with them, looking only at the wooden doors at the end of the hallway - the last barrier between this oppressive place and the outside world.

"I insist," he tells her, without looking at her but holding the side of her arm as they walk.

"Comrade Legasov," she says, stiffly, and it shocks him a little because she called him Valery not ten minutes before, when they were by themselves. "I thank you for your intervention, but please don't feel obligated to..."

"We're beyond thanking each other now, I think," he says, cutting her off. "Look, I have a driver assigned. Might as well use him, no?"

The air is crisp when they step outside, but it has the vague promise of warmth so characteristic of May evenings. Ulana lets out a long sigh and closes her eyes. The car is waiting just across the street, perfectly timed for Valery's exit. He longs for a cigarette, but he ran out on the drive here, too nervous about what state he might find her in. He needn't have worried. She's too stubborn - it will take more than a scare to stop her. Won't it? Even now, on the doorstep of the detainment center, her gaze is wry as she opens her eyes.

"Why not, I suppose," she says, and shrugs. "Might as well make use of these goons."

The driver has the nondescript face of a spy, yes. It hadn't occurred to Valery: he hadn't even spared a glance at him when he first got in the car after the meeting, but it's evident this man too was assigned to report his every move. Boris called him a naive idiot, earlier, he wasn't wrong. They spend the ride in a tense silence, unwilling to say anything in front of him.

The hotel is a modest, utilitarian establishment not far from the Electronics Institute - some of the windows are still lit, and on the walkways students linger, carefree and unconcerned about the tragedy that is threatening the entire world so many kilometers away. Valery misses his students, all of a sudden, their youth, their innocence. When Ulana steps out of the car, he bolts out after her, to the driver's surprise.

"Thank you, that will be all," he tells him.

"I'm supposed to drive you to your house," the driver objects, glancing around them apprehensively. Those were his orders, clearly. Valery's apartment, empty and quiet. He'd rather fly to Pripyat than face that today, to be frank, but the flight isn't scheduled until the next morning.

"Thank you, I can find my way from here."

"Valery," Ulana objects, quietly, touching his arm like he'd touched hers earlier.

Valery turns towards her and moves her away from the car, out of earshot from the driver. He places hesitant hands on her shoulders, and when she doesn't object he leans a little closer, until they are at eye level.

"Shcherbina always pesters me to eat. Have you eaten?" he asks.

"At midday only. But what of it? Don't anger them now. Go home like they expect you."

"I need to eat as well. Let's do it together."

"Are you going to buy me dinner, comrade?" she asks, playfully, and the way her eyes light up takes at least ten kilos out of the oppressive weight on Valery's shoulders.

"Something like that," he says, though he isn't made for playfulness and sounds probably more serious and intent than he meant to. He lets go of her, afraid of showing too much.

"I need to shower. And to change," she says with a shudder. "I probably should throw out these hospital clothes."

"I can wait in the lobby."

The driver is still there with the engine running, clearly unsure what to do, observing them in the rearview mirror. Valery makes a sound of frustration in his direction.

"Don't you wish this could all go away? That _it_ had never happened?"

"That we were just two colleagues going to dinner for the first time, no threats, no disaster, no responsibilities? Of course. But that isn't possible."

"I know it isn't." He turns away from her, feeling immensely foolish.

"Valery," she says softly. "It doesn't mean we can't pretend."

She takes a step closer and reaches for his hand. He stares down at this and squeezes her hand almost by instinct, starved for the contact... A simple affectionate gesture - it knocks him off orbit. He's been too lonely.

"Pretend?" he repeats in a whisper, because he doesn't trust his voice to be steady otherwise.

"Just for tonight. Wait here. I won't be long."

They enter the lobby together, and Valery doesn't need to look back at the driver to guess his surprise. The receptionist also looks surprised to see Ulana returning, but she quickly composes her face to politeness. Figures: secrets and treason everywhere. Valery sinks into the lone armchair of the lobby and forces himself not to stare at Ulana as she disappears up the stairs. He hears the receptionist making a phone call, seemingly innocent, and wonders if she's speaking in code. The driver has probably reported the anomaly by now. But why? Why are they so important? He tried asking Charkov about this. Why this need to follow them, to keep them on their toes? Aren't they doing enough already? Isn't it enough to serve and save the country from disaster, isn't this the greatest show of loyalty there is?

He stands to stretch his legs and to make the receptionist a little more nervous. There's a mirror in the lobby, a dirty, ugly little thing where he can barely see his own reflection. He takes off his glasses to clean them and sighs. He's still wearing his suit and tie underneath his light coat, but if they were truly pretending to go out, he should have dressed nicer. Maybe. He hasn't kept up with the times, what is it that people do these days? At least he shaved this morning. Maybe Ulana doesn't care about such things.

He hears her heels on the stairs before he sees her. Valery holds his breath. She looks incredible, for someone who was held captive only hours before. There's a slight flush to her cheeks and lips (makeup?), but it's not just that. She looks _alive_ , determined, and she grins at Valery like there's not one thing going wrong in the world at all. Her hair is slightly wet from the shower, and it presses against his face when she kisses his cheeks like an old friend might.

"Good evening, dear Valery," she says, just as lightly, intent on keeping the charade, and Valery just has to smile.

"You look beautiful. I should have got you flowers," he says, trying to copy her playfulness, but meaning every word of it.

"Well, the night's still young," she says with a wink, and laces their arms together.

No one is visible in the street when they step outside, but it doesn't mean they're not there. There's a restaurant just around the corner but Valery and Ulana walk past it in silence. They should get as far from the hotel as possible - an effort to lose their escort, likely futile, but one they both seem willing to make. There's still some light out, giving the roofs of Moscow a gentle orange tint. Spring is definitely here, with its timid flowers and its softer colors. Everything seems grey near Chernobyl, in contrast. Grey, muted, and dead. Suspended in time. But Ulana hasn't let go of his arm, and it's been decades since Valery walked down the boulevards of Moscow with a woman by his side. The least he can do is live in the present, like she seems to propose.

 

* * *

 

He's been to this cafe once or twice before, always with colleagues, too engrossed in academic talk to truly mind the atmosphere. Today most people seem dressed to go to the theatre, having an early dinner or maybe simply some tea. The only empty table was near the back, in a cozy corner, with not much room between them. Perfect for a romantic evening, if that were their intent. It doesn't quite feel like it, but there's a newfound, unspoken closeness between them. Valery removed the jacket of his suit and draped it on the back of his chair, but in front of Ulana he fills strangely undressed in just his white shirt and tie. The food they order has a bland, unobtrusive taste, just like the wine, watered down to meet the anti-alcohol restrictions. Across the table, Ulana flashes him a sad smile.

"Did you always want to be a lunatic, then?" she asks, echoing their earlier conversation in that horrid place.

"A scientist, you mean?" She nods, and Valery shakes his head. "Not really. I was good at it, so I kept studying. I realized it later, when I was almost graduating. I think I wanted to be a soldier when I was a boy?"

"A soldier?" She chuckles, and he with her. "Why's that?"

"It was the war," he explains, sobering up. "My big brother left to fight, so I wanted to be like him. But he didn't return, so that put a damper on my heroic aspirations." He gives her a wan smile. "Don't tell Shcherbina. I'd never hear the end of it."

"I think he'd say, and I agree with him, that you'd have made a loyal soldier. But I'll keep your secret, if you keep mine."

"What is it?" Valery leans closer. "What did you want to be?"

"A ballerina. What! Don't laugh. I was only a small child." She flushes, her cheeks gaining a nice rosy color. "They said I didn't have the right physique, so I threw myself into my books."

"Do you still dance?" he asks.

"Never. Can you imagine? What would my male colleagues say? I'd be ridiculous."

"I can't imagine ever thinking you are ridiculous," he states firmly.

If this were a different world, he might have taken her somewhere to dance tonight. A different world, with no nuclear reactors, thousands of people to save, and hundreds of thousands to condemn to a slow, painful death. He's not particularly skilled at dancing, but his old grandmother had seen to it that he at least could manage to sway with the music, though she always declared he had two left feet. Valery finishes his potatoes in silence, trying not to imagine how it would feel to have Ulana pressed close to him, her hand on his shoulder and his arm around her waist as they danced.

"Did you like your life, _before_?" she asks.

Valery still wishes he had a cigarette. He glances around the room, at the other couples. They seem happy. Unlike them.

"I liked teaching," he says. "I was just thinking of this earlier. I miss my students. Even now I wonder who was assigned as my replacement, whether he's good for them."

"Were you a good teacher?" Ulana teases. The twinkle in her eyes has returned. "Or did you yell at them a lot?"

"I did yell," he admits. "But I don't think I was a tyrant. I liked... explaining, making them understand. In ten years, no one failed my class."

"No one? I don't imagine you giving easy exams."

"I was fair. I asked no questions they couldn't solve from the material I assigned them. But it was a personal crusade of mine to make the tests as complex as possible. I don't regret that. The real world coddles no one."

"And still, no one failed. You were good, then. A good teacher. A good man."

"I don't know about that," he says, examining the white wine left in his glass. "What about you?"

"I wasn't asking you about your job, earlier," she says, her eyes emphatic with a meaning he can't quite grasp. "But I will answer in kind. I liked my job, yes. I suppose I was content. But there wasn't much room for excitement, lately. I often felt bored - wishing something exciting happened." She lets out a bitter laugh. "My mother always did say be careful what you wish for."

"Hm," he agrees. "Sometimes, on holidays especially, when I didn't have to go to the office, I did long for something that would make me feel more of a scientist and less of a primary school teacher or an administrative clerk. I got my wish too, I suppose." His throat feels a little tight, so he takes a gulp of wine. It doesn't help. "What did you mean earlier, then? If not work?"

She doesn't answer at first, playing with her food - a carrot cake for dessert. It looks tasty. Valery regrets having refused his.

"Was work all there was to life, for you?" she asks after a pause, instead of answering.

"Well, yes," he admits, and at once he feels lacking. He must be blushing: his face feels warm. Several of his colleagues lived in equal solitude, entirely devoted to their work. It made him forget this isn't common for most people. "Why? Are you married?" he asks, his throat still tight. He should have asked this much earlier.

"Divorced," Ulana says. "A long time ago. He took the children with him."

"What happened?"

"I worked too much, he said, I was never at home. He was right, I think. But back then it didn't seem fair, I had my career to think of and he was a selfish pig. I now wish I had more time with them."

"It's not too late," Valery says, and reaches for her hand across the table. "Not for you."

"You're a terrible liar, Valera. Don't you start now," she says, with an amused smile that doesn't go with what she's saying. "I have just as long as you, maybe a year more. And anyway, my daughter won't speak to me. I don't want to try and have my son hang up the phone on me too."

"Try anyway," he says, and squeezes her hand.

Ulana nods, but pulls her hand away. He regrets having lost the contact, but she grabs her fork and cuts off a piece of cake that she offers him. He raises an eyebrow at her when he realizes she means to feed him like a child - or a lover. Valery leans closer, obediently enough, and she holds his chin briefly as she feeds him a mouthful.

"Very good," he says. "I forgot their cakes were good."

"We'll share, I'm getting too full for all of it," she says.

Ulana splits the cake in half. He needs to move his chair closer to her for this - close enough that their knees touch under the table. He meets her gaze as they eat. She still looks wearied, underneath the sociable facade.

"Was there no one? Ever?" Ulana asks.

Valery shakes his head. "There could have been," he adds. "When I was still in University. But like you, I wanted to work on my doctorate. It seemed more important at the time. She didn't want to wait that long, so she left. I suppose it's easier to understand for men than for women."

"Isn't it always," Ulana interjects, dryly.

"I can't say I regretted it much. It probably means I didn't love her. But it gets… too quiet at times. I did wish that was different, _before_. Many times."

"Now you have a minister barking orders in your ear," she teases. "Can't be that quiet."

Valery chuckles with her. Oh, Boris. How he fussed about him earlier in the meeting, afraid Valery would say the wrong thing, afraid he'd ruin everything. He'd even tried to stop him from talking to Charkov about Ulana. His protectiveness, while stifling and masquerading as anger, still warms his heart. Valery has been alone too long, that this gruff show of affection is enough for him. He'd have moved heaven and earth to free Ulana. He's certain Boris would do the same for him, too.

"I think you undersell yourself, Valery Alekseivich," Ulana says, done with her cake and moving on to finish her wine. "I'm sure there are no shortage of women making eyes at you in your Institute. Your younger female students, at least. You're probably oblivious to them."

"You're joking." He grimaces, amused with her assessment. "Who would want this ugly, awkward, grumpy old man?"

"You'd be surprised," she says, and under the table, she strokes his knee.

Valery draws a blank in his mind, unsure how to react. Sure, they were playful, they were close. But this is heading into unmistakable territory. Is he allowed to feel like this? Is it even possible these days to long for something more, when he has a death warrant hanging above his head? Ulana removes her hand and looks at him with a sad smile. He feels angry, all of a sudden.

"Why did this have to be like this?" he says, forcefully, but keeping his voice low. "Why did _it_ have to happen for us to be sitting like this in a cafe in Moscow?"

All his years devoted to Science, and he has no answer for that.

"We could have met otherwise," Ulana says, ever ready to argue. "I could have attended one of your conferences. I would have asked a question afterwards. I'd have been annoying, I'd have made you doubt your conclusions, you might have argued with me in the conference room. I'd have followed you after the lecture and kept pestering you."

"You would have," Valery concedes, already annoyed at the thought of the hypothetical scenario. "I'd have run from you. I don't think I'd have asked you to dinner."

"No," she agrees. "But _I_ might have."

Valery feels a little flustered. She's so forward. It feels as if he's the one being seduced here. It makes him want to assert himself somehow, so he leans closer to her. She stays very still, and he tilts his head to press a kiss to her lips, lingering for a bit longer than is probably polite in a crowded cafe. She tastes of carrot cake. His glasses are in the way. He pulls back, his heartbeat loud enough to feel it beating in his ears.

"I'm not too good at this," he warns her, gesturing between them to mean interpersonal relationships.

"It was a perfectly acceptable kiss, Professor Legasov. Short, but sweet. I think it warrants for a few replicates of the experiment."

"I didn't mean the kiss." He sighs. "Ulana, Ulana. I can't tell if you're serious - how far you're taking this pretending we're supposed to be doing tonight."

"As far as we both want, I assure you. Valery," she adds, and lowers her voice. "I'm tired of thinking of death. Aren't you?"

"Yes," he whispers.

"Then let's be alive together, while we still can."

They mingle with the theatre crowd as they leave the restaurant, wandering with them a little aimlessly to lose any potential spies. It's difficult to tell if they're being followed, but they can't take any chances. Valery wraps an arm around Ulana's shoulders to keep her near him in the crowd. There must be a show at the Bolshoi tonight - most people seem to be going that way, but it's too close in the direction of the Kremlin for Valery to feel comfortable. They step aside into a small park to let the passersby advance, avoiding the streetlight for conspicuousness. Valery's hand trembles a little as he lowers it to rest around her waist. Just as he imagined, earlier, but there is no music to match his brief fantasy.

"Shall we go back to your hotel?" he asks, softly.

"My room is probably more bugged than an embassy right now," Ulana says, shaking her head.

He thinks of what Boris said not long ago, about their toilets being bugged. She's right: if they've been following her, if they've arrested her, she is probably under tight surveillance.

"Considering I begged the Deputy Chairman of the KGB to free you earlier today," he says, trying to keep his tone light, "I can't imagine they'll be too shocked to hear us together. In fact, I imagine they'll be expecting it."

"You did what now?" she asks, wide-eyed.

"He was in our meeting today at the Kremlin. I thought it was worth a try."

"You _are_ a lunatic," she says, shaking her head. "Why did you do that? I'm not so important."

"You are to me." His voice sounds a little hoarse. "I told him I needed you. That's all it took."

Ulana takes a step closer, pressing herself almost entirely against him.

"And is it my body you need or my intellect, Professor Legasov?"

"Can't it be a little bit of both? Ulana, I can't do this without you. You're the only scientist I trust to find out the truth. The only honest person in all this madness."

He doesn't address the body question. He thinks it's quite self-explanatory to be standing like this with her, holding her so close. It's a little difficult to see her eyes in the failing light of the evening, but something softens in her gaze.

"So let's give them a show?" she jokes, not very heartily.

He almost agrees, really - yet another act of defiance. Let them hear all about it, if they are so keen to be nosy. But a tape? Of him and Ulana? Making noises, being intimate? If something goes wrong with the clean up, with the reactor, anything at all, the State would have powerful ammunition to extort them into disgrace, or worse, into silence.

"We can't," Valery says, and takes a step back. "And my flat is too depressing, and likely bugged as well by now."

"Well, Valery, there are other hotels in Moscow," she suggests, and he sighs in relief. Of course. "I'm sure a handful of them aren't bugged at all."

 

* * *

 

The hotel they settle for is a notch above Ulana's, with a spacious lobby and tall white walls adorned with modern art. The disinterested clerk asks for their papers and writes down their names in his guestbook. If he makes a report, that gives them a few hours at most - stolen hours they can hardly afford with all that is at stake. The lift is a thing of the 1920s, noisy and cramped, barely large enough to accommodate two people. But Valery and Ulana aren't concerned about space. They stand face to face, bodies pressed close, staring at each other as the lift makes its slow way to the fourth floor. She reaches up to remove Valery's glasses, slowly as if she were afraid to spook him.

"Can you still see me?" she asks.

"This close? Yes. But you'll have to guide me to the room."

Ulana does just that when they get to their floor, holding his hand and pulling him along. It's not that he can't see at all. Valery distinguishes objects and colors, but anything further than half a meter is too blurred for details. Their room, for example: he can tell the bedsheets match the curtains, and that a photograph is hung above the bed, but he cannot distinguish what is represented in it. No matter: he did not come here to admire the room. He tosses his light coat and his suit jacket in the nearest chair, minding the sounds of Ulana's heels as she moves around the room to make it more to her liking. When she stills, Valery turns around to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, still clothed. He squints: she's looking at him.

"It's been a long time since I did this," he tells her, earnest, as he joins her to sit on the bed. These nerves of his would make more sense in a boy, not a man nearing fifty.

"Yes, me too," Ulana admits. "After a woman hits forty, most men assume she has outlived her sexual usefulness."

He laughs then, his first true laugh in months. "Ulana," he says. "I'm afraid I 'outlived my sexual usefulness' at the age of twenty-three."

His laughter is lost into the kiss Ulana presses to his lips, pulling on his tie to bring him closer. She holds his face with her other hand, stroking the light stubble on his cheek. _Let's be alive together_ , she said earlier. Valery grabs a handful of her hair, not to hurt her but to mess it up, feeling it spill and become unruly between his fingers. He can't help a soft moan, and then Ulana slides on his lap, her skirt riding up her legs as she straddles him. Her bare thighs are fleshy and soft to the touch. Valery closes his eyes, trying to catch his breath, trying to calm down.

What would it have been like, in her hotel room with all the microphones ready to pick up the noises they made? The rustling of her shirt as she removes it. Their breathing, increasingly loud. Would Ulana have had to cover his mouth with her hand, to stop him from moaning? It's a little blinding how hard he is all of a sudden - harder than he's been in years. Her bra is very _her_ , down to earth and practical, easy enough to remove, but Valery still struggles with it until she undoes it herself. He lowers her onto the bed, mesmerized by how gorgeous she looks like this, flushed and quivering under his mouth. He tries to undo his tie and shirt, but she bats his hand away. Well, then. He's not opposed to doing this almost fully clothed - there's a certain decadence to it.

"Show me what you like," he asks her, his voice hoarse as his right hand wanders up her skirt, and she brings her own hand down to guide him.

He loves how loud she is, how warm she feels, how she smells when he kneels on the bed to press his mouth to her wetness. _I could do this all day, every day_ , a dangerous little voice whispers in his head, but he silences it to focus on the way she tightens around his fingers. Ulana seems to take pity on him after her orgasm, enough to rid him of his tie and undo his trousers, but she still makes him keep the shirt on. He grinds his teeth not to come at once as he slides into her. Oh, he forgot how good this feels. He presses their foreheads together and laces their fingers tightly, just above her head.

"Should I pull out, when I'm ready?" he asks against her lips, hoping he will be able to keep that promise, but she shakes her head no.

So he thrusts and thrusts inside her, spurred on by her fingernails teasing his back under his shirt. They're both being loud now: her, gasping with each of his thrusts, and him, who cannot hold back years (days?) of frustration and he rides her over and over, happy, ecstatic - until the world stops for one exquisite moment.

Alive, indeed.

"Hold me," he whispers as he stills on top of her, and she does.

 

* * *

  


Now having recovered his glasses, Valery makes his way to the bathroom - once she's done with it herself. He is still a little weak in the knees, and his heart beats wildly, flooding his veins with the kind of boring, organic compounds he made sure to stay away from when he decided to study chemistry. A welcome change from radioactive particles. Valery avoids meeting his own gaze in the mirror as he washes his hands, to spare himself the embarrassment of seeing the idiotic grin that must still be lingering on his face. When there's nothing left to clean, he returns to the room: Ulana is lying on her stomach on the bed, dressed back into her shirt and panties. He's overcome with the urge to thank her for what just happened, but he stays silent, knowing only vaguely that it would be in bad taste. He retrieves his briefs and joins her in bed, propping himself on one elbow next to her.

He should head home. The helicopter flight is scheduled for 0700 the next morning, and the car will likely pick him up at home. But he is loath to leave her, to leave this cocoon of unlikely happiness they've woven around themselves in this forgettable hotel room. Valery hasn't slept in the same bed with someone in decades - what kind of sleeper is she, he wonders. Will she toss and turn, will she lie very still, will she want more bedcovers? This is what makes him nervous about getting close to someone, the myriad of little details that are impossible to unlearn once experienced for the first time. In another life, perhaps, he could have had this: a wife, a bed, a home, maybe even children. While he did long for it, in a very secret, very unobtrusive corner of his heart, his research, his job always came first. Now that he's seen the face of death (not dark and shadowy like in the myths, but bright and burning, gaping into the skies), he regrets it. Life is so transient, so ephemeral. When he dies, five years from now, nothing will be left of him, no one to remember him, no testimony that he once roamed this earth.

"Wasn't there a fairy tale?" Ulana asks, startling him out of his existential musings. "About a tin soldier and a ballerina?"

Valery frowns: that does ring a bell, yes. The bookshelf of his second grade class had a book full of fairy tales, with beautiful, colorful illustrations every two pages. It comes to him in a flash: a tin soldier, a careless boy, a ballerina doll, and a fish.

"I think so, yes," he says after a pause.

"What happened in the end?"

"They fell into a fire, I believe, and died in the flames."

She turns her head to smirk at him, the irony not lost on her. "Fitting, wouldn't you say?"

"Maybe," he says. "But they died happy, with each other. I don't think that will happen to us."

"Can't it? I'm happy now."

"Me too," he admits. "But tomorrow..."

"I know what tomorrow is."

Ulana places two fingers on his lips to silence him. He presses a light kiss against them. His heart gives a pang and then he grabs her hand, kissing all of it hungrily, desperately almost.

"Stay here," he begs. "Don't ever come back to Pripyat. Stay here, stay safe, call your children."

"Valera," she says softly. "You know I can't do that. You told me so yourself. Don't try to keep me away now. I'm with you, next to you, in this until the bitter end - until we know why it happened, and we can make sure it never happens again."

He thinks of the accident in Leningrad, again. Is it connected to the AЗ-5, after all? Should he tell her? Should he say at least the name of the man who wrote the paper so that she can request it in the library? Ulana is too clever for her own good, she will find it, sooner or later. Better later than sooner. Better let her run on a wild goose chase here in Moscow, unexposed to the radiation, gifting her weeks or maybe even months she could later spend with her family. So Valery stays silent, and kisses her hand again to thank her for her devotion. To him. To Science. She deserved better than this.

"We don't belong in this world, Ulana." He lets go of her hand and rolls into his back, breaking eye contact. "We're meant to be tucked away in our labs, scribbling on a blackboard, living a quiet existence. Not evading spies and defying government officials. Having no say whatsoever in the lives of hundreds of thousands."

Ulana follows him and settles against his side, resting her chin on his arm.

"I think you're wrong," she says. "The world needs people like you, Valery Alekseivich. Good people, who will never shy away from doing what is right."

Valery covers his face with his free arm, taking care not to knock off his glasses. "I'm not a good man. I've never been. To advance in my career, I've done things, said things..." The Leningrad paper burns on his lips again. His own discreet, steadfast loyalty to the Party, too. But he cannot bring himself to finish his sentence.

"We all have our secrets. Our ghosts." Ulana pries his arm from his face gently. She's smiling at him. "But what I've seen you do these past ten days firmly puts you in the 'good' category. I can't imagine anything that would swing you far enough to the other side."

The way she's looking at him, so unwaveringly believing in him, in the goodness of his heart - he doesn't deserve that.

"I hope you never do," he whispers, and when she kisses his lips he lets himself believe that she won't.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
